Round and Round
by yadon
Summary: There's a saying in the Old West. That everything changes but the truth, and the truth alone, lives on forever. And after everything changes for Jake Marshall, he spends the next two years on a mission seeking just that: the dark truth that everyone's doing their damnedest to let die. [Spoilers for most of AA1. T for lots of cussing & heavy themes. Happy? SL-9 Day]
1. Day 11

_"For in grief nothing 'stays put.' One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?_

_How often - will it be for always? - how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, 'I never realized my loss till this moment'? The same leg is cut off time after time."_

_\- CS Lewis_

* * *

Goodman's got his final day of meeting with Little Ema and Lana said she and Gant are gonna be at the crime scene in their office, one last time to wrangle up any potential missing pieces. Ms. Angel is speakin' with Darke – he's a bit more cooperative when a pretty lady's doing the askin', though he could also just have enough brains to know he's out of ammo.

And Jake is in Neil's office.

Or, _an _office. Not Neil's. Not anymore.

That's exactly what Jake's been tasked with today. To take "anything he deems important" 'fore it's _really_ cleaned out.

He's been here since sun-up and hasn't made an inch of progress. Just sittin' in Neil's chair, staring out the window, down at the ant-people whose lives are just goin' on and on while his is at a standstill.

Thinking.

'Bout yesterday, a little. The funeral. Watching a part of his _self_, being buried down deep. All those stories and moments that had once been shared bein' ground to dust – or memories, some might call 'em.

Thinks on tomorrow, a lil' bit too. The trial – and likely, verdict, 'cause this thing ain't fit to last more than a few hours. It'll be over. On the books, anyway. He keeps envisioning an actual _book,_ cover slammin' closed and blood seepin' out the pages, thick and oil-dark. All the blood spilt because of one miserable coward.

But mostly, Jake is thinkin' about _right now_, how a man's supposed to take the measures to methodically and entirely remove any presence of his brother from the one place he's still _alive_ in.

A person can't be made more dead than he already is, but that's what Jake feels like he's doin' here to Neil.

A tall order, but finally he spins 'round in the chair with a sigh, to face the chaos that is Neil's desk.

It's 'bout the same as a chicken coop after a coyote sneaks in. Lots of sticky-back notes scribbled full of Neil's shitty handwriting and file folders scattered all about, who never got too friendly with the empty plastic file tower that acts as a perch for Little Bogey to stand high and mighty over his territory.

Only fair that Bogey – who'd been with Neil from day one - should be the first to go, too. Jake carefully picks up the tiny barrel cactus, sets it in the corner of the cardboard box Edgeworth gave him, already picturin' where the little guy is gonna go on his own desk down at the precinct.

The other corner of the desk's got a framed photo of them with Mama and Dad in Wyoming this past summer when they all went for a week to celebrate Dad's retirement. All four of 'em smilin' away and Jake can't tie those smiles together with the stoney-faced statue and the tear-streamin' mess he spent hours with yesterday.

It goes on like this, from the desk to the shelves to the closet. Find something of Neil's, pause, let himself remember, smile through the whip-lash sting that comes each time. Then blink it away like it were nothin', and move on to the next thing, the next _rememberin'.  
_  
Soon, the box is full to the tippy-top of Neil's personal effects, most of which Jake figures he'll give to their parents – maybe it'll help Mama in some way, maybe keep her from cryin' all the time and calling him all hours of the day wondering about the trial. But prob'ly not.

And the big-worded law books – he doesn't even know if they're actually Neil's, or just the office's, but likely Bambina will want to page through 'em.

One more scan of the office, certain he didn't miss anything the first go 'round but it's just his nature; a detective can never be too sure.

And he _did_ miss something. The phone on Neil's desk, the same kind Jake has on his own, too many buttons that do too many things.

Jake pulls out his own cell phone, knowin' what he's about to do is pretty much akin to settin' out to a duel with a rusty pistol, but he really just...he's been hearin' Neil so much in his head lately, that he needs to hear it for real. Needs to know he's still got it right _how _he hears it. He can't be faulted for that.

Four long, _long_ buzzy rings – plenty of time for Jake to turn his mind around on this, but that ain't his way. Followin' a decision through to the end was part of a lawman's code.

Even very bad decisions.

"Hey. You've reached Prosecutor Marshall's office. Seems I'm not around right now so leave a message and I'll get back to ya when I get back to ya."

_Beep!_

He opens his mouth to speak but there ain't a word he can say about all this – to anyone, especially Neil. There's nothin', _nothin'_ that can be said or done...

He snaps his phone shut, but it's too late.

A blinking red light – that'll never go 'way, 'cause Neil's never gonna check his messages – mocks him.

He shoves the whole phone off the desk onto the floor, the connection cable snapping. Stares at it like it's playin' possum, waiting for it to come back to life.

"Detective."

Jake startles, looks over to the doorway, and there's Miles Edgeworth, arms crossed and brow arched and starin' at him with...well, maybe it's disapproval or maybe it's pity or maybe it's somethin' else entirely but whatever it is, Jake wants to tell Edgeworth to go fuck himself.

Everyone knows _of_ Miles Edgeworth. Jake knows a little more than others, drawin' on the bits he's heard from Neil about some of the goings-on at the prosecutor's office, and that plus his own personal experience thus far makes him wish he knew Edgeworth a little _less_.

Because what Jake Marshall knows is Edgeworth is the furthest you could get, both as a prosecutor and as a man, from his brother. He's as crooked as they come, and how Neil not only tolerated Edgeworth but actually bothered to greet him every day, Jake couldn't - and now would never- figure out.

"I'm not quite done in here, Edgeworth," Jake says, turnin' his gaze to empty spot on the wall where Neil's calendar –panoramic scenes from the Grand Canyon – used to hang.

Jake didn't fear any man alive enough to not look him in the eyes, but there were a few he didn't _respect_ enough.

"Yes, well, regardless of your..._progress_ in here, I was hoping you could assist me. You can come back later if you need to."

Jake doesn't say anythin', although he does finally _look_ back at Edgeworth to let him know he's listening.

"I was going through Prosecutor Marshall's copy of the file for tomorrow's trial, his notes, and... I've interpreted most of them but some are...unreadable. If you could offer your assistance, I would be very grateful."

Fuck Edgeworth's _gratefulness,_ but Jake ain't doin' this for him. This was Neil's case, and it doesn't matter a lick what anyone's title is – _head_ this, _lead_ that - this is _his_ now, so...

"In here."

"Pardon?"

Jake's words come out real slow, like tryin' to direct to a stubborn mule -or in this case, a stubborn ass. "Bring the files in _here _and I'll go over 'em with you."

"Detective, I think-"

"You weren't thinkin' nothin', Edgeworth."

Edgeworth stands there with his pan hangin' open partway, his eyes flicking at everything _around_ Jake: the empty desk, the knocked-over phone, the _full_ box.

And then he shuts his gob, gives a curt nod and turns on his heel, leavin' to go retrieve Neil's files.

Maybe Edgeworth's really as bright as all the rumors say. Maybe he realizes tryin' to win a petty argument against a man who's already lost so much ain't no win at all.


	2. Day 83

He knew it in those hours _right after_ when he didn't know anythin' anymore, 'cept that Neil was dead.

He knew it during the trial, the utter sham that it was, watching that boot-lickin' brat do what he did best: get the guilty verdict no matter how mucked-up the evidence and the testimony was.

And he knows it now, watchin' this common scourge with his limbs strapped down, twitching and jerking like a cornered squirrel and getting what's comin' to him.

This man – no, this deranged little pissant - with his beady rat eyes full of nothin' but give-up-and-give-in as the needle pricks into his skin, did not kill Neil Marshall. _Could_ not.

'Course, there's no mistakin' Jake is glad to see Darke meet his maker. Murdering five people, bein' too yellow to man up to what he'd done, hidin' for months and then attacking a helpless little girl – Jake hates him the way anyone who's a speck of decent oughta hate such a lowlife piece of shit, plus a little more because he _knows_ that little girl.

But it ain't the kind of hate, the all-consumin', shadowy awful-ness stirring inside him that is especially for whoever _did_ kill Neil. Ugly and depthless, it's forever floatin' around in every part of him, demanding Jake to find a target, but when he locks it on Darke – it's like bein' asked to wear a hat that ain't his.

All the other victims' families – see, the verdict and _today _is closure as close as it's gonna come. Jake, he's allowed – actually, he's goddamn _obligated_ to have somethin' too. So sometimes (like now), he lets the thought wiggle 'round a bit, tries to break it in so it fits proper...

Darke on his knees, whimpering and beggin', downright _pleading_ for mercy that ain't gonna come while the cool barrel of Jake's pistol was pressed 'tween his eyes. Jake's grin the last thing Darke sees 'fore the bullet rips through his skull, showerin' the wall behind him in a flower of brains and blood. And Darke's poison-black heart gettin' loaded with the rest of the round, for good measure.

...Well, it _does _fit, 'least every-which-way in what Jake's fixin' to do.

Except the _Darke_ part, that's where it's not comfy, where it rubs him sore. If that part _had_ fit, he'da done took care of it the second that _Guilty_! verdict was handed down.

Lana tells him it's grief, this sickness pick pick picking at him like a buzzard on a carcass, day in and day out. That it'll never really go 'way, just sort of patch up enough that he'll be able to have good days again. Different kind of good days, but still good. She's proof of that, after all, losin' her parents so suddenly, so undeservedly.

And he'd like to believe that, 'specially since it's comin' from _her_.

But knowing and _believing,_ that can be two very different things. He's never not taken her for her word, but he can't this time, not when Neil's word don't match it.

It's not just Jake who's arguin' with Lana, with the "evidence". It's Neil too, his voice in Jake's head sayin' loud and clear, that there ain't no way he'd get bested by some scum-sucking varmint, even in a blackout, even with no weapon at his disposal. 'Specially not when little Ema's life was in danger.

But since he _can't _say his piece, Jake did for him, during the brief recess after that horseshit trial and before the sentence, to Lana and Edgeworth and whoever was within earshot.

Edgeworth, in all his infinite pigheadedness, told Jake he was allowed to hold Neil in whatever estimation he wished, but it was nothin' more than an opinion, and those are not submissable in court. Jake told Edgeworth that he'd got a few more opinions that Edgeworth oughta hear, before Bambina got in the middle of it, getting Jake to shut up by sayin' Edgeworth (or, "Miles", she called him) was right.

If he can't get through to Lana, how's he supposed to convince anyone else _Miles_ is _wrong? _When Edgeworth's the reason Ms. Kirby's gran-kids and Ms. Moss's fiance and even his own parents are, at time-of-death 4:06 P.M., finally able to breathe again without chokin' on their own sadness.

The viewing room slowly empties. Thankfully, without even havin' to ask her to, Bambina keeps close to Mama and Dad while Jake hangs back. He's kept himself from lookin' too much at his – their – parents; that's when the hate starts to flicker up and he knows he could get snippy and inconsiderate with 'em.

He sure wishes Mama didn't choose today to be the first time she left the house for anything other than goin' to church to pray. If anything, Jake woulda told her to forget comin' here today. To get on back to the church and keep on prayin' – he'll take all the help he can get, if he's gonna ever get to the bottom of this.

'Cept he didn't have it in him to hurt her and Dad again –he'd used that all up three months ago when he called 'em to break the news.

It ain't their fault, believin' what they needa, just so they don't go all addle-brained. So even though what they're believin' is ten shades of false, he don't get mad at 'em. He's gotta save that _mad_ for where it belongs.

The last to exit, he's approached in the lobby by a couple in their early forties, and he recognizes them to be Jason Knight's parents. They start talkin' to him, feeding him the same lines the other victims' families have - that they're real grateful, and always will be, to the whole team for makin' sure justice was delivered.

And Jake's nodding along, but his thoughts go wanderin' back to when he interviewed the Knights at their home, an' kept gettin' interupted by Jason's little brother. Kiddo only three or four years younger than Jason was, not understandin' the situation to its full-most, didn't realize Jason was really _gone_. Was plumb excited to meet a real copper and wanted to see Jake's badge, so Jake let him carry it around and show it off for a lil' while. Made him an honorary deputy.

Sure is a mighty inappopriate time for a memory and a smile to creep up, but it ain't any wronger than the whole fucking trial was, so he lets it come, thinkin' back on when he and Neil were the same age as Jason and Little Brother, and got in a scuffle 'cause Jake wouldn't let Neil play with his G.I. Joe's, so Neil retaliated by introducin' Joe to a new foe: the microwave.

He's God's-honest never once thought on that since it's happened, but that's what's been goin' on lately – all these _memories_ he thought had evaporated leaking out.

Which he supposes is how it works when you gotta think of _anything_ 'bout your brother other than him layin' in the casket paler than a sheet, hands folded to his chest and not lookin' much like your brother at all.

Then there's the words he doesn't wanna hear, not today, not ever again – no matter how good the intention is behind it.

"...And your brother, he was such a good man...I'm sorry it had to come to...what it did."

Jake thanks them as real-ish as he can manage, but inside he's steamin' with anger, with that _hate_ that don't have a name and face to go with it, and his fingers flex into fists, itchin' to punch a hole through the wall beside him.

He don't need the Knights, or _anyone_ to tell him Neil was a good person. Jake knew that, _knows_ that, and he's gettin' real fuckin' sick of everyone tellin' him everything he already knows about Neil, when nobody can tell him the one thing he doesn't.

Who really killed him.


	3. Day 162

Jake's been looking forward to this day for the past two weeks.

Which is sayin' something, seeing how Jake's spent the lot of the last five months lookin' back over his shoulder at That Day, thinking the answer to it all is gonna be there _this time_.

But today's a day for celebrating. Bambina's last day at the precinct, 'cause after years of hard work she's finally been transferred to the position that's been in her crosshairs from the get-go: Chief Prosecutor.

Jake couldn't be prouder of her – for more than just her promotion, really – and is treating her to the Dodgers game tonight to show as such. They don't get much time _out_ together now, with Lana not too keen on straying from Ema for too long, but since the gal's away at some junior scientists' camp, they got the whole night ahead of 'em.

But yeah, however proud he may be, whatever happiness he's got stirrin' is tainted. It's a fair bit disappointin' that she's gonna be over in the Prosecutor's Office by her lonesome and not with Neil. He'd be pretty proud of Lana in his own right, having risen through the ranks with her, and bein' the prosecutor on the case that led to her first promotion, to Lead Investigator and Gant's partner.

He ain't gonna say as much though – don't wanna be selfish, or kill the mood. Just wants to take in the long hot summertime with her down at Chavez Ravine, then maybe visit that divey cantina near her apartment they used to frequent for dates.

Have it like it once was, if only for a few hours.

Lana meets him at his desk promptly at five-oh-five, all changed for the Dodgers game, bright blue t-shirt with her long red scarf showing her support. Her ponytail's swishin' out the back of the LA ballcap Jake bought her when they went to the Dodgers last spring with Neil and Little Ema.

He greets her by way of lifting her cap up enough to plant a kiss on her forehead, and she flinches like she always does when they're at the precinct and he decides them rules about interoffice relationships are more like "suggestions" and "guidelines".

"Y'all set?" He finds his own hat, which is the perfect match for the Texas Rangers jersey he's got pulled on over his usual work duds. Jake never really took to baseball, not like Neil did, but there ain't a better team name in all of sports so he made it a necessity to own this, for the few games he did go to.

"Well...I am, but..." Her gaze trails off with her voice for a moment, before she looks back at Jake with the same steadiness he's come to depend on. "Damon wants a word with you."

''Bout...?" Jake frowns, wonderin' what the shiny new Chief of Police wants with him that could be so important after five on a Friday.

"I'm not sure," Lana answers all too quick. "He didn't say. I'm guessing about the case you just wrapped up."

Which don't make no sense, because it's pretty open-and-shut, a rash of armed home invasions ending in the suspect gettin' his comeuppance when he didn't pay heed to the Beware of Dog sign at invasion sight number eight, blubberin' his confession while he got stitched up at the hospital.

And because it's not too often that Lana and Gant aren't _sure _'bout what the other was thinkin'.

But as much as he wants to right now, you don't get away with sayin' "Nope, ain't got the time," when Damon Gant asks you to do something.

* * *

Might as well be walkin' into the Badlands. Not just because it's unpleasin' to the eye, with Lana's side of the office lights-out and shades-drawn makin' the shadows creepy and warped, and not just from that droning echo filling the room, courtesy of the organ pipes.

'S because when Jake makes his way 'cross the office, he's steppin' on Neil's last footprints too. It's the first time he's done so since That Day, his demands to investigate the scene being nixed on account of it being "too emotionally traumatic" for him.

Like there's some kind of expiration date. That now, five months later, he's s'posed to just waltz right in not feelin' all rotted-out in the heart and tight in his throat like he is as he takes a seat at Gant's desk.

"Good afternoon, Marshall! T-G-I-F, am I right? Just finishing up some paperwork for Lana's transfer!"

Maybe it's nothin' but the green-eyed monster of jealousy but he sure does hate hearin' a man more'n twice his girlfriend's age callin' her by her first name so..._dearly_. That's way down the ladder of things that rile Jake up about Damon Gant, though.

The top of the list would hafta be how all his investigations (especially the ones headed by Manfred Von Karma) were too squeaky-clean to _not_ be coverin' a whole gully of dirt underneath – including the Darke murders.

But one thing he can't say Damon Gant's not is purposeful with his words and actions, and Jake knows he's showin' just what he thinks of "Lana" by callin' her that, 'stead of bothering with a nickname.

It also doesn't get by Jake that _his_ own little nickname used to be "Jakey-boy." Which he hated, but really would prefer it to just bein' called by his last name, since that means there ain't another Marshall around to differentiate him from.

"She said you wanted to speak with me."

"Yes! I don't wanna keep you too long. Heard you two are going to the Dodgers game tonight! I'm more of a Giants fan, myself. Went up to catch a few games last year. Even took a kayak out in McCovey Cove!"

"That's great."

He's got this whole charade figured out – Gant always wantin' to lead the conversation, and when it don't go down that path, just pull out that penetrating stare he's got fixed on Jake right now. Jake likes to think that he's one of the few officers that don't end up shiverin' like a calf out in the rain when under it. However long Gant wants to stare him down, Jake aims to stare back at least one second longer.

"Anyway!" Gant claps his hands together once. "I just wanted to see how you've been, that's all. Rough go of it the past few months for all of us."

Jake's got his doubts Damon Gant has given any mind to what the past few months have been like for anyone other than hisself, but he nods, eager to be done with this meeting.

"We – Lana and I, that is – we want what's best for the department, for everyone here. And Lana especially, she wants what's best for you, you'd agree with that, hm?"

"Sure," he grits out. Gant's always talkin' to Jake like he's got nothin' underneath his hat but hair, but if there's one thing Jake ain't, it's stupid.

Yeah, _in comparison_ to Neil and Bambina and all them lawyerly sorts, he'll fess that much is true, when it comes to booksmarts. But Jake notices things, even when he'd rather not. He picks up on words, on what's bein' said and what's _not_ bein' said.

And right now, there's a whole shitload not bein' said, with Gant supposedly doin' the talking for two. That ain't how it used to be, _before_. Lana'd always speak her mind – s'what drew Jake to her, one of many things.

"After talking with her, I – well, we – think it might be better for you to have a less _stressful_ position and there's-"

Jake's steely poker-face falls, dissolving into disbelief.

"-an opening at the records security room! Need someone monitoring those cameras. Very important work. It'd be perfect for you, Marshall. Whaddya say?"

Gant's eyes glint behind his shades, that he don't look too different from the rattler-snake Jake's always thought of him as. Cold-blooded when it counts.

"I'd say that sounds like a demotion." He knows how to keep his voice from betrayin' how gobsmacked he is by all this, but he don't know how to stop his heel from tappin', trying desperately to stomp stomp stomp down the anger that's flaring up.

"No, don't think of it that way. You're just going where you're needed most! I mean, the pay would be little less and-"

"-And I wouldn't be workin' crime scenes?"

"Ah, well no, this is primarily a desk job. I can't really go into it all now, you know. Don't wanna make you and Lana late for your game! But you'll have your training starting Monday. If you want a little overtime you can come in tomorrow and move your things over to the guard station."

He knows he sounds all broken, the way he keeps swallowing to stop from flyin' off the handle. From lunging across the desk and closing his fingers tight around Gant's neck, get him to quit yammerin' on like they're just bendin' an elbow at a saloon together. "I...kind of had...plans, but..."

"Oh, come now! It'd do you good to get out of your apartment every now and then. And that's another upside to this new job! You'll get to work weekends, overtime! It'd be good for you, help you move on. You need to put this behind you, son."

Funny, only Lana knew that's how he spent most his weekends: at his new crawlspace-sized apartment starin' blankly at whatever was on the public access channel and downin' whatever swill beer he'd kept stocked in the fridge.

Wasn't nobody else's business, certainly not Damon Gant's.

'Til she made it that.

He stares back at Gant, the only words he can manage bein' the absolute truth. "I see." Because he sure fucking does.

"I'm glad you do, Marshall."

The way Gant says it so quiet and casual-like, unblinking and deliberate. They're the words that soak in, stick like burrs, scratch and dig deeper in the more Jake tries to shake 'em off.

Same as that night five months ago. When Jake arrived at the precinct, after a phone call from Gant 'bout some "incident" in this here office, and asked Gant why couldn't he just talk to Neil 'bout this incident.

_"Oh, well, I'm afraid he's dead._"  
_  
_Gant waves his hand dismissively, like Jake is nothin' more than a pet for him to command. "Now, go! Have fun at your game!"

Jake doesn't need to be told twice – even though he's not 'specting too much fun tonight, game or otherwise. He hightails it across the office, ready to get out of this place Neil never did, and is a few steps from the door when Gant calls out to him.

"Oh! Marshall?"

He turns, a flash in his mind of Neil alongside him doin' the same.

"Could you bring Lana her water bottle? She left it on her desk."

What he'd really like to do is spit in Gant's face.

"Sure can, _Chief_."

So he quicksteps over to Lana's desk, and his breath near leaves him entirely when he sees what's on the wall, hidin' away under the shadows of her abandoned post.

Gant, and Lana.

And 'tween them is Neil with his award – from _That Day_.

The sourness in his mouth, the weight in his stomach like he's been socked in the gut, the agitation crawlin' all over him from head to toe, just like That Day.

Bambina had never said anythin' about this photograph - never mentioned anythin' to Jake, that maybe he'd like a copy of the last picture of Neil. Maybe he'd even like to come up sometime and have a look-see at his brother the way he always saw him in his mind: all sure of hisself, determination in his eyes and very much _alive_.

He ties it all together with a sure hand: Why it's here, why she'd never said a peep about it to him.

Must've not meant 'nuff, just meant to collect dust here 'long with her stationary and textbooks. She could forget 'bout where she came from, and who was 'long side of her the whole way real easy s'long as she got what she wanted. Where she wanted.

And everyone else got what-for and where she wanted 'em too.

Gant's still at the desk, head bowed as he scribbles through that paperwork.

"Marshall, do hurry along. Don't leave a lady waiting."

He doesn't reply, not trustin' himself to do anythin' but rain a tide of cuss words if he opens his mouth.

As he rushes down the fourteen flights of stairs, too damn pent-up with a burning ire to stand still in the elevator, the rest of the puzzle begins to stitch it self together so very seamlessly.

Boy, he'd really like to think it's all an elaborate ploy on Gant's part, sayin' how this is Lana's idea too. A set-up, to keep Jake from mouthin' back about his demotion – he wouldn't go against Lana – but when he rounds the corner and sees her still waiting at his desk, with her unreadable expression...

He knows.

The good days. A Saturday when they'd both helped Little Ema with her homework and then ordered out Chinese food and watched some goofy superhero program Ema liked. And for an afternoon, the part of his _feeling_ that kept getting sliced away returned.

The not-as-good days, Lana helping him move out of his (and Neil's) old apartment and into his crappy, cheaper new one and never questioning him for tackin' the wall up with Neil's Dodgers pennants and Lakers posters and a buncha other things Jake never cared a lick for past the fact that it was somethin' Neil liked.

And the really bad days. Her taking 'way and gettin' rid of the half-empty bottles of whiskey that weren't his – were Neil's - but someone had to drink it, he said. Might as well do it all at once – go big or go home, like they did in Texas.

_All_ those days, she'd been there with him, and listening – listening so quietly and attentively when he would go on and on about how he couldn't believe Neil'd gone out this way - it'd been because she wasn't there _for_ him.

This whole time, she was _with_ him _for_ Gant.

To shut him up.

Well, she's not done that, not by a long shot. Only thing she's done is prove him right. And he can't believe he's wasted all this time searchin' for answers by lookin' backwards. He shouldn't have been usin' hindsight, shoulda kept his eyes peeled on what was right in front of him.

She speaks first – thankfully, because Jake doesn't know how you start a conversation with your girlfriend about how she just sold you down the river.

"Ready to go?"

"No." He shoves the water bottle at her, starts to gather up a few items from his desk he'd rather keep at home than in his new prison.

She's so remarkably calm, cool. Not saying a word, and finally the silence becomes too much.

"I'm goin' by myself. Don't think you and me goin' together would be _what's best for me._" He retrieves some of the order-out menus from his desk drawer, throws 'em in the trash. Not gonna be able to afford to eat out for lunch too often now.

He aches for her to argue – to put up a fight, provin' everything he's just uncovered ain't so. That's her _way_, that's how Lana was, scratchin' and clawin' to the very end until things were settled. That's what made her one of the best detectives the LAPD had ever seen, and such a fine partner for Neil when he was only a tenderfoot.

Instead: "If that's how you feel, Marshall."

Now she's doin' it too – not carin' to remember there was another - and that's enough. That's the end of it for him. He doesn't even bother with a goodbye, just turns tail and leaves.

It's while he's drivin' through the blasted LA traffic, hungry for a Dodger Dog and to goddamn their bullpen up and down just like Neil used to do, that it occurs to him maybe it didn't matter none that Gant – and now Lana - wouldn't bother to separate him from Neil.

Two of 'em ain't all that different now, really, seein' how they've both been stabbed in the back.


	4. Day 292

"Oh, _shit_, are you kiddin' me?"

Jake nearly knocks his beer off the pool table he's leaning against as he straightens up, disbelieving that he's just seen Angel's dart hit bullseye, dead-center. Victory.

Angel plucks their darts off the board, returns to the pool table with that saucy smile of hers, the one Jake knows has left many-a-man before him hot 'round the collar.

She waggles the blunt end of the dart at him then turns to face the board. "_Visualization. _You should know that, Jake. You just picture your target, picture hitting your mark." She closes one eye, then the other, rearin' her dart up and gulping in a huge breath.

"And then." Her eyes pop open all ablaze, and she whips the dart, nails the outer ring of the bullseye.

He knows what image is painting itself behind her 'lids when she hones her dart in: Lana's unforgiving stare and Edgeworth's sneer as they brought the ax down on Angel's career three weeks after Jake got booted to patrolman.

"Simple as boiling water. And speaking of things to drink," She lifts her empty bottle and flutters her lashes pretty-as-you-please. "Seems I need another. Loser buys, right?"

Well, no, he never agreed to that, but seein' as she's pickin' up the rest of the tab tonight (which she can't really afford to do, but insists on doing every other meet-up), he don't put up a fuss. Moseying on over to the barkeep, he orders a bottle of lager for himself and one of them fruity ones for Angel.

"Hey, so I've thought of a new lunch, based on your _amazing_ darts skills." She takes the beer from him, leavin' smudgey marks of her lip-gunk on it when she takes her first sip. "I think I'll call it the Marshall Triple-Layer Surprise! The surprise is it's always missing the middle!"

She's all giggly when Jake responds with a "Oh, hush up," and a playful nudge, and he too gets that peculiar tickly feeling in his belly. Laughter. Been so long since he's done any of that, but now every Tuesday night with Ms. Angel, it's becoming business as usual.

One-Eyed Jack's sure ain't the fanciest joint. A long bar full of sticky stains and stickier regulars, a rickety juke that only stays plugged in so the scruffed-up pool table don't get lonesome, and a tiny dining area that serves nothin' but pissy beer and damn good spaghetti.

What's important is, it's welcoming like very few places Jake knows, and that's what the both of 'em need right now. After bein' shown the door, it's nice goin' somewhere that it's open for you, no matter how unnecessary and forgotten you are to the rest of the world.

They never discuss _why_ they're here; that's as obvious as the high-noon sun. Only thing to discuss is what they're gonna do _about_ it.

If Angel's found out anything new from her collection of beaux, or if Jake just needs to rehash everythin' about the trial again, they'll do so immediate – some nights, it's all they talk about – but they can't talk about it every week. Sometimes, no matter how tenacious Ms. Angel gets, there ain't anythin' new to report.

It's on those nights, tonight being one of 'em, that they're two people with just each other for company. Gettin' to know one another for more than what they'd once been: coworkers who got along top-notch, but were only good for a happy birthday or shooting the breeze in the break room.

It ain't that he means to keep Angel fenced out, but it's plain to him that if he starts talkin' about himself, it'll only lead to talkin' bout Neil and then won't let up.

Last time he rattled on 'bout his fallen brother to someone he was sure he trusted, got him strung up where he is now. He doesn't truly think Angel would pull one over on him, but he never thought Lana would neither. Angel's on a one-way track for revenge, and the last roadblock she needs is him pilin' on every last thing he wants to say 'bout Neil.

So he saves his breath for breathin' and leaves the chatting to Ms. Angel, comin' to understand why near every man who laid eyes on her – Neil included – carried a torch for her. She has the knack for rubbin' up the dullest subject to make it shine like a gold nugget.

The only topic she skirts around is her bevy of boyfriends. Never gives names, only the department they're in. Yeah, she manipulates them in order to get the dirt she needs to try and help him make a break on SL-9, but it don't take a detective of Jake's caliber to see it's more than that.

That they're also the reason she's not out on her ass. They help pay her rent, treat her out to meals, and she treats 'em back with free lunchboxes and any-and-everything else not on the menu.

Those rascals get her body, and he gets what's left over. What he'd, in all honesty, rather have. The little pieces introducing him not to the ace investigator who could reach into the most hardened criminal and rip out every last shred of truth, but to Ms. Angel Starr, the person.

It's what gets him through all those hours of keepin' an eye on nothin', with no companionship other than Billy, Bogey, and those beep-booping machines that confuzzle him: knowing there's someone who still wants to share themselves with him even after he's shriveled away into a husk of his former self.

And there's a whole heap she's shared.

Like how her only scar comes not from her time as a cop but from her pet rat chompin' her finger when she was five. How she's got an aunt who's actually a year younger than her. Or that she ran cross-country in high school and dreamed of bein' an Olympian.

'Til one of her teammates – and closest friends – was abducted, raped, and found four months later under the docks of the Long Beach marina. Then she changed her mind 'bout her career path.

Tonight what she's sharing is that she's as cutthroat as she is beautiful when it comes to darts, growlin' and huffin' when Jake finally ekes out a win after having lost the first three matches.

"So what's my prize for dethronin' the reigning champ?" He asks when she returns from the necessaries and the bar, third round of beer in her hands.

"Let me think about it..." She pretends to do just that, all pouty-lipped and finagling with the orange wedge garnishing her bottle. "Not a damn thing, I'm afraid. Just wait 'til next time, Marshall. I'll roast you like a habanero on a hibachi."

"Aw, don't get sore." Jake slugs down some of his beer as he racks his brain for somethin' he could come away with that won't involve her spendin' money or him being falsely accused of trying to get fresh.

His answer comes in the form of the metalhead on the juke wailin' about _dance_ _the night away_. "Hey now, I know what you can honor me with: a dance."

"Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm bluffin'? C'mon Angel, next song, whatever it is: me and you, over there." He gestures over to where "there" is, the empty area between the pool table and the almost-vacant bar that used to house a creaky ol' foozball table. "I'm the victor, and that's what I want, so you can't say no. Them's the rules."

She sets her beer aside and crosses her arms, on the fence a-tween amused and annoyed. "_Rules_? Since when do you follow any rules, Jake?"

"Since I made 'em up. Now c'mon."

The familiar piano beginning the tale of a small-town girl livin' in her lonely world fills the silence that hangs thicker than molasses. He's all ready for her to give him a sassafrassy reply, like she always does.

But what he gets is the meek whisper and half-broke smile of a woman who's forgotten how to be treated with respect.

"If that's _all_ you want."

All he can offer is his hand and quiet reassurance. "That's all I want, baby."


	5. Day 365

"You sure you're all squared away there, chico?" Jake hitches up the box of evidence he's got his arm 'round, ready to deliver it – and his career as a detective - to its final resting place.

"Sir! If I had to label myself as 'unprepared' or 'ready to go', I can safely say that I am as ready as I'll ever be, sir!"

Jake should be the one gettin' some big fancypants award this afternoon, havin' to deal with this rube. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes to teach someone how to be an ass in a chair, yet somehow it's taken half his yesterday plus his entire morning today to train in this Meekly kid.

Says a lot 'bout how important Jake and his position are, that a fresh-faced colt such as Meekly can use it to fill his requisite on-the-job training hours 'fore he's sworn in as a full-fledged officer of the law.

Jake's about to set off, but catches Meekly – once again - lookin' at his pet cactus like a magpie who's found a pile of tinfoil.

"Don't touch Billy. Told you already, he ain't the feely type."

"Sir!" Meekly salutes, then swivels to Billy and does the same. "I swear on the badge I've yet to receive not to make any unwanted advances, sir!"

Jake shakes his head and leaves one Hell for another.

* * *

Today's the first day Jake's been excused to be up from his post. By anyone official, that is. Never had much use for a rulebook, but especially nowadays, when the reason he's penned up here in the first place has a lot to do with people doin' things by their _own_ code.

On the days he unofficially excuses himself, it's to stretch his legs and take his steed for a trot around the City of Angels. Find a nice parlor for lunch or a shop with bits and baubles to make his torture chamber more welcoming. There's been days where he's been gone for his full ten hours, and ain't no one's noticed. But no one would, he 'spects, in a place where time has no meaning, and neither does he.

Today's different. A _mandatory attendance _annual awards ceremony – or as he likes to call it, a snakepit. Where Gant can hiss his forked tongue at his underlings, congratulate the ones who were the best suck-ups of them all.

First things first, however.

The underground vault is 'bout a pesos's worth more inviting than his own grounds, and is buzzing with detectives of the same ilk.

None of them greet Jake with more than a word or two. Which he's used to, everyone pussyfootin' around and "giving him space". Translation: don't fraternize with the outlaw – you might end up guilty by association, and get sent to the gallows like Starr did.

They come and they go, but Jake stays behind, making himself comfortable and spreading out the evidence on a table in the mid-sized breakroom down the hall. He ain't exactly in a rush to get to the ceremonies, nor to make sure that Meekly didn't end up stickin' himself on Billy (would learn his lesson, if he did).

To anyone passing by, it looks like Jake's just reviewin' his case one last time 'fore he sends it off into the eternal sunset. And to some extent he is.

CP-4, it was known as; the last homicide he worked 'fore Darke struck. A messy one, a sargent and his wife getting shot execution-style, some gang-banger's revenge after the sarge gunned down one of his posse. The murderer ended up gettin' his own skull beat in by his jailmate. Made Jake all fuzzy-warm inside when he heard 'bout that.

Never thought that one day, the tiniest part of him would understand where the criminal was comin' from. Funny, that.

The main reason he's in this room is more 'cause of _where_ it is: the break room also houses the elevators, so Jake doesn't, and won't, miss anyone who comes and goes.

Another thing today is: the day Jake smokes Bruce Goodman out of his hidey-hole.

Maybe he oughta call Angel and run it by her, but things have been tetchy lately. He's only seen her one time since Christmas, last month when she demanded they meet up so she could give him his birthday present: a little filly named Marilyn to keep Billy and Bogey in line. Made him dreadfully emotional, her bein' so thoughtful and such, when he'd been nothin' of the sort with her.

She ain't done anything wrong. It's just, every week he finds himself tellin' her last minute he can't meet up this time. They haven't been makin' much progress, and he's already so down-in-the-mouth that the last thing he needs is a reminder of it. She's perfectly understandin' of it, doesn't get hot with him, but all the same he feels he's letting her down.

Like any man worth his salt, he needs to apologize to her, but he can't think of any way to explain it other than that it is what it is. That bein' around _anyone_ lately just ain't somethin' that's working for him.

Some days he can't even go home, that's how much he's dried up inside. He'll find bars and all-night diners to pass his time until the next mornin', and then catch up on his sleep in his cell. Goin' home means curling up in his warm bed, and not botherin' to get out the next day, or the day after that. Or ever again.

Actually, that ain't _all_ true. If Bruce Goodman called him up and said he were willin' to grab a drink with Jake and talk about the case, Jake would bolt out of bed and run no-boots-on to wherever Goodman wanted, just to have a word with him.

But Jake knows he'll sooner see a buffalo learn to rollerskate than have that happen.

Goodman ain't crooked like the rest of 'em, he's just more-or-less a gutless slug. Oh sure, he agreed the trial was bogus, he just weren't vocal about it, like Jake and Angel had been. So he's the odd man in, Jake and Angel the ones kicked to the curb, lest there be scuttlebutt a-circulatin' that maybe they weren't so wrong after all.

All Jake's gleaned from Bruce's quietude is that he don't see Neil as worth stickin' his neck out for. The only thing Bruce has put any work into is lying low, most especially doin' his damnedest to make himself scarce around Jake.

Like he's doin' a quite wondrous job of right now.

* * *

Jake's watchin' the little hand of the clock hit two, having seen neither hide nor hair of Goodman. He'll give himself another half-hour 'til he calls it a failed mission, he decides, when lo and behold, the elevator chimes and out steps Bruce Goodman.

What's more is, he does Jake's job for him, making a beeline for the snack machine.

That's when Jake springs his trap.

"Need some help there, Bruce?" Jake stands, already withdrawing his wallet, not missing Goodman's eyes goin' wide as he sidles up aside him. "Here, it's on me today. Which of the little fellers you want?"

"Bugles," Goodman's weedy smile wobbles as Jake drops his coins in, punches in the B5 and fishes out the snack.

"Thanks." He chuckles – not forced, genuinely gracious, and sets the box he's carrying down on a table so he can take the chips from Jake and stuff them into his coat pocket. "I couldn't resist. I heard they finally got them back in stock here. They haven't had 'em here in ages."

"Aw, well, I wouldn't know. I don't get out much." Jake's eyin' him like a fox spottin' an open rabbit cage.

And just like a little bunny, Goodman tenses for an instant, then puts his head down and makes to hippity-hop away. "Well, thanks for the snack, Jake, but I gotta get going. "

Jake sidesteps, cutting off his path. "Busy day _today_, huh, Brucey?"

"Jake, I'm kind of in a hurry..."

"So much in a hurry you ain't got time for an old friend?" They're eye-to-eye, the same height, but Jake's always thought of himself standin' so much taller than Bruce ever has.

"No, not that, but I still have another box of evidence to bring back here, and I don't wanna miss the start of the awards..."

"They won't notice if you're a few minutes late. I only got one thing to say, then you can be on your merry way, alright?"

Jake's tone implies he ain't askin' permission, but Goodman blinks a whole bunch, like he's got sand kicked into his eye, and nods for him to go 'head.

He don't have time to mince words, to talk and not really _say_ anything. "Open the case up again."

Bruce sighs, lookin' everywheres but at Jake. Clearly, he knew this was coming. "I can't just do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"You _know_ why the hell not! Gant'd have to clear it first, and you know he won't, so why bother? What you're asking of me is suicide."

"And what makes you think they won't do you dirty anyway, like they did me an' Angel? You're only still here 'cause of what's good for them, don't try an' tell yourself otherwise. Bein' kindly to vipers don't guarantee you not gettin' bitten. 'Sides, I never said nothin' bout clearin' it with the _Chief._"

A pause, and Jake can almost hear the cogs in Goodman's brain clicking what he's just said into place.

"You're not really suggesting I -"

"No, I'm _telling_ you. Give it to me. This is my case anyway, and you know it. You get caught, just say I forced you to drag 'em out, say I put a gun to your head. I don't care, just _try_, for Chrissakes."

Goodman sighs again, shoulders sagging, and Jake can't tell if his far-off gaze is cause he's lettin' the words sink in, or just tryin' to find another way to disregard 'em.

"It's not worth it, Jake."

"_Neil_ ain't worth it?"

"That's not what I'm saying. I know you miss him, but-"

Red blasts into Jake's vision, hot 'nuff to chase the Devil himself out of Hell. He raises his fist, hammers it into the glass of the vending machine. Goodman flinches, takes a stutter-step backwards.

"You don't know two cents worth of fuckin' nothing, Goodman. _You_ sit on your ass every goddamn day in some dungeon, erasin' six hours of nothin' and no one just to watch it again, while all you do is think about putting a bullet in your own head jus' so you can see your brother again, just so you can ask him what _really_ happened. Then tell me what you _fucking know._"

Jake's not the type to do anythin' other than say what he means and mean what he says. But _those words_ – where did _they_ come shootin' out from? Well, at least he's got Goodman spooked enough that he might actually start _listening_ 'stead of just hearing.

"Look. This ain't about Neil, this is about the fucking truth. We _all_ swore an oath when we took this job, and you goin' back on it and just tryin' to keep this swept under the rug – that's what's wrong with the world. Not evil-sorts like Gant an' Edgeworth but cowards like you who don't see fit to do nothin' about it."

After a weighty silence Goodman tells him, "I'll think about it," but it's so drippy it oughta have a saucer 'neath it. Asking a man to do somethin' and making him do it are two different things, and Jake's gonna have to do the first one a few times more to make any headway on the second.

"Yeah, well, if you need any help with that, I got plenty of experience."

Goodman doesn't have a reply to him except a twitchy goodbye. His shoulder knocks Jake's as he slips by to pick up his box and head to the vault.

Jake stands there stiller than a scarecrow, staring unseeing straight ahead. And then he erupts, hauling his fist back and punching the vending machine for real this time.

And again, and again, not feelin' a lick of pain for all the fire coursin' through him. It ain't until he hears a stunted _crack, _look-sees he's done put a thready fracture in the pane, that he stops.

Then the burnin' inside him starts to crackle in his eyes too. He really didn't mean what he said to Goodman – about offing himself. At least, he thinks he didn't.

But the God's-honest-truth is, it had to've come from somewhere, and sometimes Jake _does_ think: what _if_ he weren't around. What _if_ he just up an' died. At least he'd get to see Neil again. That shouldn't make him smile so, but it does.

There's one last thing today is.

A year, since.

Not that Neil's any closer or further from his thoughts just 'cause the calendar's turned over. Some months ago, he would have expected this day to be the most agonizing of all. But then his soul got so sucked-out from being caged up, that all that hurt started to stretch real _thin. _Never ached terrible hard one minute, stopped for a few, then started back up again.

Just one long twinge, as endless as the open frontier.

He knows better than to think about _that_. But it don't work, just shakin' his fist at those wrong-way thoughts and tellin' them to git on out, skedaddle.

The only thing that _sort_ _of_ works is reminding hisself, that if it were switched – that he'd been the one to bite the dust, and Neil were left to figure out why - his brother would never_ ever_ stop until he did.

For all the rules he can't bring himself to follow, Jake would never think of breakin' the code between him and Neil – the one written in blood, to always have each other's backs until the bitter end.

He examines his shootin' hand. No breaks, not like the pane in front of him; he knows how to throw a punch. But his knuckles are scorching something fierce, scraped and pinpricks of blood seeping out, from doin' it over and over and over.

Like how he's so shredded up on the insides from _over and over and over _every day.

He curls his right hand in to his body, uses the uninjured one to rummage out the snacks that fell in all his rage. A chocolate bar and a bag of some salty-sweet mix.

Even though he ain't hankering for much to eat right now, the chocolate bar is one of his favorites. He pockets it for later.

But the snack mix don't look too appetizin'. He'll just chuck it out before he-

No.

He don't needa be at this high-falutin' ceremony. Mandatory? Nah, he'll decide what's mandatory and what's not.

Meekly deserves a reward for bein' such a good little guarddog. Kid's got a head soupier than week-old stew, but Jake would rather see _him_ all lit-up about gettin' a packet of snack mix than watch those who _protect and serve_ no one but themselves perform a three-hour circlejerk.

So he pockets the snack mix too, gathers up the evidence into his box, and carries it on out to put the final nail in the coffin of his time as detective. Ends up wolfing down the candybar on the way back as he mulls things over.

Maybe after he's done with Meekly, he'll call Angel, say he's sorry by way of taking her to a movie tonight.

Or not. Don't matter, really, what he does today, or tomorrow, or ever.

There ain't nothin' special about today. Neil is still dead and Jake's still not any closer to knowin' the truth. Like every other fucking day.


	6. Day 573

Jake's lunch break - which is turnin' into a just another whole afternoon off – is spent huddled next to Angel at Jack's, hoverin' over a copy of the transcript from the case of State vs. Maya Fey.

Got it from the other boyfriend, a records clerk at the prosecutor's office. Trial's been over not even a week, so that's some feat, gettin' it out so lickety-splitly. The high-neck blouse Angel's sportin' gives Jake a pretty good idea of how she convinced him to hurry it up.

Mr. Records Clerk's the winner of the day in the luck department. The only thing Jake's scored is a free box of pork teriyaki strips.

"This is _bullshit_!" Angel exclaims, slapping the stapled stack of papers against bar counter. "How is there nothing in here to incriminate Edgeworth? It's like a California roll with imitation crab. All this set-up and ultimately tasteless."

Angel's sushi metaphors are lost on Jake, but one thing's for certain: she has every right to be this revved up about not gettin' anything out of the packet in front of her.

If any trial shoulda unmasked Edgeworth for the double-dealin' fraud he was, it made sense for it to be his first-ever defeat, a crushing one at the hands of some upstart named Phoenix Wright. And yet, the paydirt Jake and Angel were hopin' to strike today has been a bust, yielding nothin' but junk.

"Guess he just lost fair's-fair." Jake shrugs, polishing off his whiskey. Feels like ropeburn goin' down his throat but it's the kind of pain that's just the other side of good.

"How can you be so..._okay_ with this?" She takes his empty glass from him. "I'm cutting you off, you're scaring me."

"I didn't say I was. But you're blusterin' on like this means it's over."

Angel was flippin' through the packet with her eye out for one thing, and one thing only: any and every mention of Miles Edgeworth.

But Jake's had an eye on something – someone – else entirely.

The victim. Mia Fey.

Angel squints at him, like he's just tried to return his pork box in exchange for tofu. "What's going on in that melon of yours?"

"There's a lot _not_ on the pages here that's gonna get us to where we wanna go." After standing to get his wallet out and pay the tab, Jake takes the transcript from off the counter, folds it in half and brandishes it at Angel as he continues, "I'll let you know what I find out."

"So, wait, no, you're going by yourself...? Jake, we're in this together."

"Baby, I'm goin' somewhere a lady like you can't help me. You've worked your magic, now's my chance to work mine. You trust me, right?"

"You're saying I can't help you 'cause I'm a woman?" She sips on her pink fru-fru drink, plays with the stir-straw.

"I'm sayin' you're not the _right_ woman."

The disgusted sigh Angel gives says she knows exactly who he's talking about.

* * *

As he waits in the visitor lot of the prosecutor's office, Jake's full awares this is a real underhanded way to go about it, hoping to play on any grief Lana might have for Mia.

But if you wanna beat those who crawl on their bellies, you gotta get down on their level.

Of the three-headed monster, Lana's the one he's got any shot of appealin' to. If he can get her just half-way, no, a _quarter_-ways thinkin' on reopening SL-9, it could be enough to try and spur Bruce on again.

He ain't planning on askin' about it _just_ for the sake of investigation. He refuses to believe that the "frigid bitch" (Angel's words, not his) who swindled him good is really the same woman he'd been willing to lay his life on the line for. Now that her best friend's been brutally murdered, he's worried about her the way any boyfriend would be.

It's a real head-scratcher that he's still supplyin' himself with that title when the actions to go with it are bein' used on someone else.

As the weather warmed, Jake's resolve to keep on keepin' on also heated up. Eventually, he sought Angel out again, and started to apologize for his standoffishness – and she told him there was nothing to forgive.

They soon quit goin' by a schedule. All that overtime Jake'd accrued in the winter months from working (or, not-working) gave him some extra dinero, so he was ready to put it to use. Told Angel, whenever one of 'em wants to meet, just name a time and place – ain't got anything else to do.

He sure do _try_ to bring Neil up, but he jus' can't. He'll talk 'bout Mama and Dad, talk 'bout why he became a detective. And he'll get real close to saying something about his brother, even starting the story, but then end up just editing Neil out of it. Same-as-ever, he's worried if that part of the wall crumbles, it'll be a landslide that'll crush her.

However, he finds he can share Neil in ways that don't need talkin', and takes Angel out to places his brother would (or would want to, 'least), were he 'round to. Like Dodgers games (not many – those things are a pretty penny) or askin' her to help him pick out a birthday present for Mama at the same ridiculous _mercado_ that he and Neil would always find somethin' gaudy-but-perfect.

When they're not on their half-assed dates, it's back to the investigation, which Angel's really ramped up the over the past couple months. Using this new clerk boyfriend, she's been able to get ahold of any and all transcripts havin' to do with Gant or Edgeworth, and she and Jake spend hours takin' a gander at them.

She's got her mitts on ones 'bout Lana too, but Jake never sees those. Well, he saw _one_, and that ended in them gettin' snappity with each other, Angel seein' things Jake didn't, that would implicate Lana as bein' just as immoral as the two men that never left her side.

And it's tough to say if Angel's all ornery 'cause of any feelings that might be takin' root on her end, or if it just meant she don't wanna be 'round him in general, in a way anyone would be, when his feelings for Lana overpower the conversation like stink on a polecat.

Might be a combination of both.

* * *

Lana steps out the elevator into Lot A, and Jake almost trips out of the car as he hoofs it on over to the fence separating the two lots.

"Lana!" He calls her name two more times until finally...

She stops, the only tell he's caught her off guard; her expression is, as always, as empty and dry as the Mojave.

His fingers curl into the chain-links, and he serves her up his best sheepish smile, tries to play all cool as she strides on over. Inside his heart is thudding faster than a jackrabbit. "Howdy there, little lady."

"Officer Marshall...can I help you?"

No one could ever accuse Jake of not bein' a master of cutting to the chase.

"I know you an' Mia Fey were good friends." 'Course he does – she introduced Mia to him as just that back 'fore Mia had finished up school.

Her brown eyes are flat, staring past Jake to somewhere he'll never be welcomed to. "Mia and I hadn't spoken much over the past couple years."

"That ain't what I said." Her diffidence is purposeful, he knows, but calling her out on it will just squash this opportunity before it's begun. "I just...well, you're doin' okay, right?"

"Redd White's trial starts in a couple weeks; right now we're preparing the case against his accomplice. They both already confessed in the original trial, so there won't be any issue getting a conviction."

"I mean..._otherwise, _Lana -"

"Chief Prosecutor." She stresses, in a harsh tone not too unlike Edgeworth.

"I mean otherwise, _Chief Prosecutor Skye_. You're gettin' along okay?"

"I am." She swallows, and the hard corners around her words finally soften a bit as she continues. "Mia Fey was very talented – even before she was an attorney, she impressed me. She was more capable as an intern than most defense attorneys who've earned their badge."

Impressed. Now there's a word Lana Skye don't just throw around like a jay scatterin' seeds. _She_ was usually the one making an impression.

But it wasn't like Jake hadn't heard quite a bit of what there was to hear about Mia Fey, even though Lana's actin' like this is the first time he would be.

He was smack dab in the middle of this impression that Lana's speakin' of, that showcased Ms. Mia Fey's abilities as a soon-to-be defense attorney.

Jesus, he can't believe it was over five years ago. Mia assisted some coffee-swigging hotshot in servin' up a real whopper of a loss to this young buck makin' his prosecutorial debut.

Between Neil's bruised ego and Lana, who was the detective on the case, bein' absolutely stunned, Jake got a real earful about these two up-comers who were a force to be reckoned with.

And now she's snuffed out. Well, only the good die young, so they say.

"She was somethin' else, yeah. Musta had the right people 'round her."

Not a smile, no. Just this shine startin' up in her eyes, somethin'...not really different; he's seen it before. But it's been so long, they've both changed so much that yeah...pretty different. A look finally admittin' there once was (and still could be...?) something more than just air between them.

Jake could whoop and holler, that little tic from her more progress than he ever would have thunk could come from today.

Maybe this is pushin' it too far, but..."You sure you needa go home right away...?"

"Actually, first I was going to-"

He can't help from babbling over her, so excited, like this is when he asked her out for the first time all over again. "That is, if you weren't plannin' on doing anything tonight, I heard there's a new Mexican place not too far from here that's got some mighty tasty margaritas."

Her favorite. Or, Bambina's favorite, anyway.

That's not who she is now.

Good _God,_ but that don't stop him from yearning to scoop her close against him, to press his mouth to her soft hair and take a deep breath, see if it still smells like sunshine. Have her in his arms and all at once feel like he's protecting her, and that he's safe himself.

That image of the once-was-and-now-will-never-be is shattered by a boomin' voice and the person it's attached to - the one _other_ person Lana had always been impressed by - strolling on over to her side.

"Sorry, Lana, didn't expect to get caught talkin' with von Karma so long – you know how he can go on and on - oh!" Like he didn't see Jake until right now. "Marshall! Long time, no see."

"Not long enough, Chief Gant."

Gant gives him that deadly stare, and Jake don't blink back even once. "What're you two chatting about?"

"Nothin' that's a-tween more'n two people."

"Come now, we're all one big family here. What's so important that you, a patrolman, is holding up the chief prosecutor? Inquiring minds must know!"

Jake sticks his hands in his pockets, stands casual-like, like they're just shootin' the shit on the porch of some saloon. "We were just discussing the recent life an' times of Miles Edgeworth."

Lana's brows crease, her eyes narrowing. Jake's not sure if it's because of the easiness of his lie, or because of who the lie's about.

"Is that right?"

"Sure is." Jake touches the brim of his hat as a show of courtesy, then shoves his hand back in his pocket. He can bullshit that he means no harm too. "An' what brings _you_ here to the prosecutor's office today, Chief?"

"Well, that's not really any of a patrolman's business. I mean, you aren't even allowed on this side of the parking garage!" Another mile-long stare. "But! Eh, no harm in telling you, I suppose. I doubt you'll blab to anyone, hm?

"Seems there was an internal incident here – items being lost from the records office over the past few months, and we've finally apprehended the culprit! Juicy stuff, wouldn't you say, Marshall?"

_Shit_. _Angel's boyfriend._

"I would, sir."

"_Anyway!_" Gant claps his hands together. "What's all this about Little Worthy?"

"Jus' how he's losin' his touch, it would seem."

"Oh, well, even our little Worthy's not perfect. We all make mistakes, now don't we?"

Jake does his best Gant impersonation, hard jaw and no indication any of these little digs are nickin' him up like bob-wire.

"But still, he's the best prosecutor this place has ever seen. Good thing we have him around – picking up the slack for the other ones who don't get the job done."

As if Jake wasn't going to already shoot Damon Gant where he stands for gettin' so _familiar_ with Lana, that vicious slur against Neil caps it.

So what if Neil hadn't had a spotless record like Edgeworth or that other feller, von Karma? At least Neil had principles – _"I ain't interested in prosecutin' the innocent, only the criminals_."

After he got past his bumpy beginning, he stopped caring 'bout his win-loss record so long as justice won out in the end. Didn't have any qualms 'bout hearing out the defense's side if there were even a shadow of a doubt.

Not that he'd always fold right away, but sometimes a man just don't have the right cards to play. In that case, it was better to fold with integrity than win as a four-flushin' cad the way so many _others_ did, and leave the real culprit still out there somewheres scott-free.

But if the defendant was a _true_ felon, then look the hell out. That ruthlessness Neil bottled up and unleashed on those who deserved it would end the trial faster than a quickdraw.

Jake could really use some of that ruthlessness now to tell Gant to keep his filthy grubbers off Lana as he watches the chief slide an arm around her, showin' off just where she belongs.

On his side of the fence.

"Speaking of getting the job done...!" Gant gives Lana a friendly little squeeze against him. "Why don't I come over later and make you girls dinner? Say, seven? My specialty, shrimp-stir fry! Save you from cooking, so you'll have time to help Ema with her biology project, hm?"

"That sounds...nice, Damon."

She don't even like seafood, but seems she's willin' to swallow anything Gant feeds her. And Gant's doin' his best to be spoonin' it to her in fullview of Jake.

"Splendid!" He releases Lana, then looks at Jake. "Good night, Marshall. Oh! And, tell Ms. Starr I think her Deviled Egg Delight box is a real winner. I know you two get along so well."

The pair of 'em walk off _together, _the Ace of Spades and Queen of Diamonds leavin' Jake behind as the lowly Joker.

He stands there for a long time even after they drive away, until the security guard pesters him to get a move on. No loitering.

He knows he should be thinkin' about where to go from here, and what to tell Angel when she asks about how his little mission went.

But instead his head is swimming with Damon Gant's words. Words that, as much as Jake hates admitting, are dead-on right, from how his heart's stomped flatter than a fritter.

Everyone makes mistakes.

Lana's one of his.


	7. Day 681

"To...hell, I ain't any good at these toast thingums. To...?"

"To one down in flames and two to go."

Angel clinks her glass to Jake's as they send out 2016 by toasting to the ruination of Miles Edgeworth.

'S the best Christmas present Jake coulda asked for, even better than the hunting knife from Dad or the gift card he won as a door prize at the Department's annual holiday bash, that's allowin' him and Angel to be at this top-shelf Italian joint tonight.

Hadn't needed any of Angel's boyfriends to get ahold of that info. It was front-page news how the brat had found himself in the defendant's chair, accused of shooting a defense attorney on Christmas Eve night. Not guilty, it turned out. At least for Edgeworth. His life-long mentor Von Karma was found to've offed Edgeworth's pop some fifteen years ago.

'Cause of that, Angel's doubly over the moon. She don't have it in for Von Karma, just dislikes him on the principle that he's _always _been more shady than you could shake a stick at. She goes on sayin' his downfall along with Edgeworth's means it's only a matter of time 'fore the rest of _them_ crumble like oyster crackers in hot chowder.

So she don't take too kindly to when Jake refers to Edgeworth as the victim.

"Christ!" Jake draws his hand up to deflect the empty butter packet thrown at him. "Calm down. I jus' meant if you wanna get _technical_ 'bout it, then yeah. Didn't say I felt _bad_ for the lil' prick."

The wool'd been pulled over his eyes 'til now. He'd been plumb foolish thinkin' Edgeworth had been man enough to decide things for hisself, had even been the one doin' the decidin' for others. Truth is, he's as spineless as can be, which made sense – allowed plenty of room for Manfred von Karma to thread the puppet strings in.

He uses his fork to push the nasty greens on his plate away from gettin' too cozy with his veal parmesan. "It just kinda makes you think, you know? If Von Karma and Gant – they're two of a kind. Always workin' the same cases, always the rumors. S'how they got to where they are, right? And Von Karma had his little pet strung up...so could be the same for -"

"_Don't_ try to defend Skye." Angel starts sawwing her knife through her chicken marsala like it's still cluckin' and she needs to shut it up. "She's just as vile as all of them and is working _alongside_ Gant, not under him. If you'd start thinking with the right head when it comes to her then -"

"I ain't defendin'! I'm _sayin'_, Von Karma takes Edgeworth under his wing so's he could fiddle with his every move, groom him into the little lapdog he became. How do you _know_ it's not different for -"

"Jake! Let's just talk about something else for now, okay? Maybe you're _not_ wrong, but your theories need time to simmer in my mind, like a good stock." She finishes off her glass of wine and immediately begins to pour herself another from the bottle. "Talking any more about _prosecutors_ is going to make me lose my appetite."

Jake chews his veal, knowin' there's only two ways to argue with a woman like Angel.

And neither of them will work.

He swallows. "Fine. Tell me 'bout your Christmas, and I'll tell you 'bout mine."

* * *

"So by then Gumshoe's so sloshed on eggnog that he's goin' around askin' people how they got all the nog outta the egg to make it." Jake holds the door open for Angel, as she slips on her fuffy jacket.

"Hm, and who could've planted that idea in his head?"

Ah, that hadn't been too nice of Jake, plying Dick with all that eggnog at the Department's holiday party two weeks ago. But the only time the cowdog quit flappin' his gums 'bout Edgeworth this, Edgeworth that, oh boy he got Edgeworth a new pen for Christmas and he sure hopes his pal likes it, was when he'd been downin' the spiked eggnog Jake kept bringing him.

Wonder what poor Gumshoe has to say about his pal Edgeworth now.

"Okay, okay, Cough-Up Queen." Jake holds his hands up in surrender as they enter the mild December night. "Ya got me. I confess to all charges."

Angel laughs, as glitzy-bright as her sparkly hairband, and reaches to bring Jake's arms down so she can link one of hers in one of his. She's so pretty tonight, Jake thinks she's done been plucked off the top of a Christmas tree.

They fall into a comfortable silence for a few blocks, the only noise Angel's heels clickety-clacking along the sidewalk. The streets are fair empty for New Year's Eve night. Guess everyone's either out at some hoe-down or crashin' at home.

"That was really swell." He says when they stop at an intersection, waiting for the walk-light to change. "Maybe we could go back sometime, once I save up a month or two."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Well, it was nice and all, but I think I like Jack's better." The little hombre turns green, and they start headin' across.

Jake chuckles, nudges her shoulder with his. "No foolin'? That place is a hole an' you know it."

"Oh, but it's like my Noontime Natto box: slimy and foul-smelling, but an acquired taste enjoyed by many."

"Includin' you."

"Including me," she affirms. "I mean, I guess places like Vincenzo's are nice once and a while but where's the character? The jukebox that plays the same cheesy songs _every_ time? The foozball table with the broken goalie? The-"

"The whats-its?"

"The_ foozball table_. C'mon Jake, you know what-"

"I know what a danged foozball table is. I jus' mean, they tore that thing out months 'fore we started goin' there. I was there the night some klutzy waitress spilled a whole tray of spaghetti all over it, got the whole thing gunked and stained with sauce. Them foozy-ball players looked like they'd been defendin' the Alamo."

Angel smiles at him as slow and sweet as honey, suggestin' she knows something he don't. "Jake Marshall, do you think you're the only man to ever show me a good time there?"

"You steppin' out on me, huh? What kind of son-of-a-gun takes a lady like you to a dump like that." The '_sides me_ is implied in his wolfish grin.

"Now, now. Don't talk about your brother that way."

Jake stops in his tracks, and Angel breaks her link with him, keeps walking on ahead.

_Well_ now. The Cough-Up Queen with her own confession.

"Angel!" He calls to her, and she turns still lookin' all sweet-as-can-be 'bout what she just spit up.

"Yes?"

He don't say anything. Just goes on starin' while she goes on smilin', and starts walking back to him.

"See, that wasn't too hard, now was it? Talking about Neil. You should try it again some time!"

"Angel-"

"Goddammit, Jake!" She stomps her foot down hard, hair shakin' loose from her headband and eyes a-blazin' like they used to when she was in the interrogation room. "We just spent the last two hours talking more about _Miles_ _fucking Edgeworth_ than we've ever said about Neil in the last, what, year and change?"

"An' what you want me to say about him?! Or, what _you_ wanna say 'bout him? He never told me you two were a-courtin'."

"What?! Oh God, _no_, we weren't. We hung out a few times when we'd have to stay late to work on...on the case. Look, what happens two months from now? Then what?"

"Whaddya mean, 'then what'? What's that gotta do with Neil – with us talkin' about him or not?"

"'Then what', we just quit hanging out and move on? I mean, you're always talking about doing this or going there but..." Her words are all sad and fluttery-like, like a flower losin' its petals. "After _this_ is all over, we won't...probably won't have any reason to see each other. At least, that's how it feels a lot of the time, when all we talk about is the case. And I don't want to...I don't want to lose you."

She don't mean it in that doe-eyed damsel way she likes to show the other fellows, but that she really _needs_ someone in the most down-earth way another person can.

"Hey..." Jake shifts his body so he can put an arm around Angel, pull her against him and let her talk angled towards his chest.

"I mean, I can't begin to understand what the hell you're going through, but Neil was your best friend – and I knew him too, he wasn't like a total stranger to me. I miss him too. And you not even bothering to talk about him... it just makes me think even more that I will lose you, you know? That this is all about the case and that we can't...just _talk_."

She ain't crying yet, but her finger keeps goin' to the corner of her eyes, touching where her eye-goop is, like it could begin any minute. "I don't mean you have to talk about him _all the time_ or anything, but -ugh!"

"No, I get it..." And he sorta does, now. All the other men; she uses them, yeah, but she's givin' up a _lot_ more. All to help Jake. He could see where at times he probably led her to think he mighta been usin' her too, for a different purpose, but just as ready to toss her away.

Weren't his intention – sounds like she knew that, so he can't blame her for lettin' her emotions get the better of her. He'd be blowin' smoke if he said he had a full grip on his own over these past two years.  
_  
_"I dunno know what happens after all this, Angel. Haven't thought that far...but a real man don't abandon those who didn't abandon him. This ain't gonna be over 'tween us, I give you my word on that. I'll stick closer to you than fleas on a hound – you get to choose who's which."

"Okay..." She lets out an airy sigh; not much, but at least it's not gettin' closer to tears.

He waits for her to say anything more, but she don't, so he takes a deep breath and finally 'fesses up.

"And...talkin' bout Neil with everyone else got me nothin' but high and dry, guess I just kind of...got it in my head I shouldn't bring him up 'round anyone. Didn't wanna scare you away from helpin' me by rambling on too much. But...I wanted to, y'know, deep down. Feels like you're the only one who even remembers him."

And bullseye. Now that he's said it out loud, that's what it is. Felt like after the case was closed, Neil became nothin' but a name in a file to everyone other than their parents. Would it have even mattered if he'd said a word about his brother, when it seemed like Jake was the only one who cared he was gone?

She lets out a trembling laugh, swipes the heel of her hand across her cheek. "He used to talk about you _all _the time, one stupid story after another about all the trouble you two got yourselves into."

Angel sounds a bit too _fond_ of that memory, like them stories weren't that stupid after all. She's a bit more spirited now, but not quite all the way there. So Jake tries to get her to buck up, teases her. "Are you sure you two weren't canoodlin' behind our backs? Here I thought you hated prosecutors."

That comment earns another shaky giggle, and she inhales a steadying breath before answering him. "Would you shut up? I assure you, it was nothing but pasta, drinks and me whipping his ass at pool. I can't date a man who threatens to cut my salary whenever he loses."

Jake can picture it clear as day: Neil all red-faced from Angel beating him, little-way 'cause he's sore about it, and most-ways 'cause she probably looked so damned gorgeous, all joyful with her victory, that if he don't scowl at her, he'll break into the same dopey smile he always did whenever her name was mentioned.

"Ms. Angel, I think a man finally pulled one over on _you_." He starts laughing, bringing his free hand to his hat like he intends to pull it down and catch that laughter to save for later. "Sounds exactly like you were out on Neil's idea of a date."

She blinks up at him, confused as a circle at a square dance.

So, Jake tells her.

How he'd never known someone with so many smarts use less than none of 'em on womenfolk. Not that Jake was a real whiz-bang when it came to the fairer sex, but he knew enough that you don't show a gal a good time by bringin' her out to take swings at batting cages, or to a bowling alley that don't even have an automatic pinsetter, just some crusty ol' goat named Ralph.

S'bout the romantical equivalent of scrapin' cow chips from your boots, yet Neil thought that was how you get on with prospective ladyfriends.

And tellin' her all this ain't the least bit gut-wrenching as he spent a year convincin' himself it'd be. It's like climbing onto a broken-in saddle, real comfortable and easy to manuever about in.

Could be 'cause Angel's the one he's saddlin' up for.

"So which stupid stories 'bout us did Neil tell you?" he asks, releasing his arm from around her.

She rolls her eyes, and slides her headband out to readjust it. "Not all of them, I'm sure."

Jake has a bonanza to pick from. "He tell you the one 'bout when we was in Montana and an elk nearly tipped our car over?"

"Good God, _what_? What'd you two do to provoke it?

"Hey now! Why's it _our_ fault!?"

Flashing her pearly whites at him, Angel takes Jake by the arm, leading him back the direction from which they came and into the lights of the city. "Better start talkin', cowboy. Or I'll make you cough it up."

* * *

He's tellin' Angel about when they went out drinking all night after Neil passed his bar exam, just arrivin' at the meatiest part.

"And the fourth saloon we stumble into, _hoo-_boy! Turns out there's some big shindig goin' on for some ninety-year old hen an' her ol' biddy friends. We walk in the door just a-lookin' for another round of drinks, an' she thinks we're there for _her_! Two young cowpokes ready to -"

All a sudden, there's whooping and cheering from allovers, near and far. Firecrackers whistle, snap-crackle and _wheeeeeep_! overhead, and horns are a-honkin'.

It's 2017.

The first person to wish Jake a Happy New Year isn't Angel.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!" A voice shouts, and its owner comes gunnin' down the sidewalk right for them. Jake instinctively steps in front of Angel as the stranger's hand goes to his hip and pulls out...

a shower of glitter.

Jake brings his arm up to shield himself, his ears ringing with Angel's surprised cusses. He can smell the distinct pungence of patchouli, and lowers his arm to see a dreadlocked young'n, wearin' alls of a pair of suspenders and wiry fairy wings.

"Happy New Year! Wooo!" The freak leaps about, and throws out another fistful of glitter for good measure. "WOO! Peace, love and green for twenty-seventeen! Woo-woo!"

And then he a-prances off down the sidewalk, and Jakes hopes, soon into oncoming traffic.

Angel's laughing so hard beside him she's squatted down into a crouch, face tipped down and buried in her hands.

"I'm glad you think it's funny." He makes haste in brushin' all the dust from his arms, his shoulders. Looks like he took the brunt of it, though Angel's got a full trail of it down the left sleeve of her coat.

She collects herself, standing straight up as Jake removes his hat. "It's a good look for you. Rhinestone cowboy, perhaps?"

He vigorously shakes his hat out in front of him, watchin' the itsy-bits of silver scatter out.

"No it ain't. Looks like a goddamned disco ball done yakked up all over me."

Angel grabs hold of his hat in mid-shake to pull herself closer. Tilting in, she pushes to her toes and presses a silky-soft kiss to his cheek.

She steps away, lookin' not amorous but just pleased to be here. With Jake. With a friend. "Happy New Year."

"You too, Ms. Angel."

A beat, a smile exchanged.

"So you got any New Year's resolutions?" she asks.

Both their answers to that are the same, obvious one, but Jake humors her and plays along.

"Well, my first resolution is find that sumbitch hippie and shoot him right in the hindquarters. Yours?"

"M-Mine...?" She sinks from her giggling into earnest thought, before she gets this real witchy smile and claws a heap of glitter from her sleeve to fling it over at Jake.

"Peace, love and green in twenty-seventeen, Jake!"

He snatches her wrist, makes to bend it up so she's pushin' that sparkledust into her own face. "I'll show you peace and lovin'."

She shrieks with laughter, trying to struggle away from him to no avail as he smears her cheek with her own glittery hand.

Here they are, a couple of nobodies with nothin' going for 'em in the middle of God-knows-where L.A. ringin' in the New Year gettin' bushwhacked by some granola-crunchin' pixie yahoo.

But Jake doesn't mind none. He ain't particularly troubled about bein' here at the low-downest bottom of the barrel, since he's got someone like Angel ridin' along side him.

Sure beats bein' up high like Miles Edgeworth, with the kinda friends he has.


	8. Day 733

Lana's scared.

"Jake...Goodman's dead. Please, you have to help me..."

__Desperate__, even.

"I...Goodman's killed...dead, I mean...and I __need__ you to help me."

Well, she's also shit out of luck.

Jake shovels another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, listening to Lana ramble on.

"You...you know no one can find out, I have to get rid of the body somehow...somewhere."

He washes down a long gulp of water before answering. "Say, you ever notice how bad we all look in our ID photos? They look like wanted posters, almost. Kinda ironic, huh? Brucey sure looks god-awful in his. I reckon not as bad as he do now, but -"

"__What__? What are you talking about?!" She's crying now – tryin' to hide it, but he can hear in the way her voice is trippin' up more than a newborn lamb. "I need you to help me, __please__. Please, you're the only person I can trust -"

Aw, that's real cute. __Now __she trusts him.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head none, Bambina. You don't need __my__ help. These things'll take care of themselves. They always do, right?"

"Jake!-"

He hangs up on her, then shuts his phone off entirely. Picks up the wallet he's had open at the counter with him this whole time.

"What'd I tell you, Goodman?" he whispers to the plastic card in front of him. Plastic-Bruce gives him a sappy-eyed nonresponse back, jus' like the real Bruce would likely be doin'. Y'know, if he could.

See, Jake had even given Bruce one last chance to make the right choice. Sought him out in the caf this morning for his final plea. But he knew what the answer'd be. It was Jake who didn't have no choice but to pickpocket Bruce when his back was turned, when he was fixin' up his coffee to just how he liked it, liked everything. Sugar-coated and watered-down.

So, even if he had the time to mourn Bruce, he wouldn't. That's not to say he deserved to die, but Jake just don't have it in him to feel anythin' more than a splash of pity for a man who, to his last breath, was naught but a lily-livered sycophant.

The only real sense of loss he feels is for the shell of the plan he'd had.

Get in and get out, then while the rest of the night away with Angel and the evidence. Find Brucey tomorrow to return the wallet and explain himself. They could crack it together, just like they shoulda – wouldn't take long this time around. Bruce'd be mad, hurt, betrayed by it all, but he'd come 'round to thank Jake once the truth was revealed, no doubt about it.

Now the only thing there's no doubt about is that the locker bearing Bruce's name __is__ holding the truth about SL-9. Him gettin' the eternal heave-ho today – __of all days__ – confirms it.

Jake wouldn't have been __punished__ to sit there, jus' a room away, for __two years__ with no way of accessing it without consequence, if it were empty.

He pays his tab, slips the wallet into the pocket of his spiffy new coat, mentally checks off that he ain't forgettin' anything.

Time to hit the trail.

For all this time bein' so wound up, so comin' apart at the seams with all the hate and frustration and confusion, he's...okay right now. How anyone who can say he's __someone__ is, when he's come to accept his fate.

There's a saying in the Old West, that everything an' everyone changes, 'cept the truth. The truth lives on forever.

Well, this ain't the Old West, and the truth __will __die if he don't do somethin' about it.

With Bruce outta the picture, Jake's a dead man walking. Ain't no one gonna believe a ghost ran that card and opened the locker. All paths lead to one destination: Jake being stripped of his badge.

Today, and a thousand-fold over, Jake'll give up hisself and his badge to ensure the darkness from That Day is yanked back into the light.

He didn't spend the last two years facing hell just to lay about, just to go out a no-count chickenshit like Goodman.

When he goes out, it'll be the same way Neil did. The only way a Marshall knows how.

With his boots on.

* * *

__Okay let's see if I can make my notes short and to the point (nope).__

__First of all, if I had to dedicate this fic to anyone, it'd be__ _**_**laurenceorange **_**___from tumblr, who was nice enough to let me use their (sadly perfectly appropriate) art for the coverphoto and also likes the Marshall boys as much as I do. I really wanna thank my good friend __**__**weasleywheezes **__**__too. She cheered me on and beta'd this despite not knowing a damn thing about AA except that I love it. There is a part of this story dedicated to her and she knows what it is. 3__

__ALRIGHTY SO I've been enamored with the __**__**Rise from the Ashes **__**__case since the first time I played Ace Attorney several years ago, and it has grown on me more and more each time I replay it. I really do like each and every character in the case, especially Lana and her dynamic with, well, everyone: Ema, Gant, Edgeworth, ___**_**Jake**_**___...__

__I'd always thought if__ I _**_**did **_**___write a __**__**RftA **__**__related fic it'd be more about Lana but I ended up on Jake instead – I feel like his POV is far less explored and just as painful and then it all just EXPLODED into this fic and...I don't know, it all feels kind of pointless other than me doing it for my own sake? But it was something I wanted to do.__

__AND YEAH I know we aren't really given too much info about Neil's personality but just from what we ___**_**do **_**___learn from Jake &amp; co., I get the impression that he could've been somewhat different than most of the prosecutors in Phoenix's games. Excluding Payne..they're rather insufferable in some way..and I'd like to think Neil wasn't, so much. I just kind of ran with that in mind, and hopefully was able to make him as "real" as the other characters are (to me, anyway).__

__Also, hey, if there ___**_**were **_**___playable Diego vs. Neil cases (with Mia and Lana, naturally), I would play it approximately one million times and love it to pieces (Diego is one of my fave characters in the series). Um not that I haven't concocted the whole thing in my head already nope not me. /shifty eyes/__

__Oh! And the fact that my penname pretty much IS this fic is pure coincidence. Seriously, my penname has everything to do with Harvest Moon and nada to do with Jake.__

__Anyway! I hope you...enjoyed? this as much as I ...enjoyed? writing it. Take care.__


End file.
